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The Truth About The Spanish Flu
A chest was recently rediscovered hidden away in the archives of the library at the Georgia State University. The chest contains dozens of letters, journal entries, and other such primary resources. These documents span from being decades old to centuries old. We’re not sure if these documents were gathered together to be hidden, or to be found. My fellow colleagues and I have been assigned the task of deciphering and analyzing these documents. After carefully weighing the pro’s and con’s, I eventually decided it was my duty to leak some of these documents to the internet at large. I submitted our first document about a 14th century Plague Doctor a few months ago. You can read it here. This new piece of evidence that I’m submitting today is dated much later. It is a diary from an American soldier named Fred Collins, who was fighting in World War One. It is a lengthy journal chronicling his voyage to the front lines in 1917, up to his return to the United States and ultimate death in March 1918. While the entire journal is an interesting read from a historical standpoint, there are 2 pages or so that question our traditional view of history in and of itself. Those 2 pages are about Fred’s time in a hospital just behind the front lines. It even has some parallels to the text that I submitted previously. I will now type it out verbatim below, with a few of my own personal notes along the way. A journal entry that my colleagues and I have titled “The Spanish Flu”. January 12th, 1918 It’s been three days since I last wrote. I have been wounded. Not mortally, thank God. As I look around the CCS (note: this means Casualty Clearance Station), I feel ashamed for what has occurred. I see men mutated from chlorine gas. Men missing a limb. Men missing multiple limbs. Bullet and shrapnel wounds. Me? I just have a broken leg. I’ve been told that it could have led to my death even 2 years prior. But the doctor marvelled at some new effective treatment that currently secures my leg beneath its plaster cast (note: he is probably referencing a “Thomas splint”). Within a year or so, he says, I’ll be walking good as new. In some ways this is a blessing. I’ll be away from the horrors of those trenches for good. And I marvel at the timing. It’s been a month since Germany’s armistice with the Russians. A new massive Western Front offensive should be imminent. January 13th, 1918 I awake today shaken. I would like to talk about a few odd occurrences I’ve observed in my time here. The CCS was hastily created from what must have been a ballroom in a massive old house. There are 40 or so patients in here with me. All is well during the day but a strange doctor has been looking at the patients at night. He is massive. Over 7 feet tall. He wears a black robe and is always behind a gas mask. An obsolete one, from earlier in the war that extends out at the mouth, making its wearer look bird like. When the doctor stops near my bed, I pretend that I’m asleep. He scares me. His smell. His demeanor. I’m not sure if he’s human under that gas mask at all. This doctor has taken a special interest in myself and the patient beside me. And he hovers around us, showing little attention to the other patients. And something strange happened with the neighbor beside me last night. I don’t know his name, and he never responds to me when spoken to. But he somehow sustained a large gash on the battlefield along his stomach up to his chest. It’s infected and puss filled. I’m not sure how much time he’ll have left. He woke in a fever last night after that strange doctor left. He was delirious. He told me that he’d be ok with his injury if it was even 10 years in the future. That they would just give him something that sounded like “anta-beyotics”. I told him I didn’t understand what he was saying. I paid careful attention to what he said next. He was feverish. He was half mad. But I could easily understand him. I’ll write it down below as best I can. “They’re invented in 1928 and will change the way we look at medicine. You know the airplanes you see above the trenches? They get massive. They hold hundreds of people and cross oceans. The telephones you’ve seen and used will fit in your pocket. And there’s no wires. They reflect information from massive machines that float around in outer space. And it’s the Russians that first send one out there. I know you see it as a country of farmers today, but things change. Or at least… all of that is what’s supposed to happen. In the proper way. But things have gone wrong here. This war ends early. We can’t figure out why.” I asked him what he meant when he claimed the war ends early here. “In the normal realm the Bolsheviks shouldn’t succeed in their revolution until 1921. Last month’s armistice never occurs. The Russian Republic continues their war. It ends with a humiliating German defeat in 1922 that leads to a second Great War in the early 1940’s.” I was shell shocked. I had no idea how to respond. I had thought he’d gone mad. But it all sounded so convincing. I was only half playing along with him when I said, “Is this next Great War in the 1940’s still going to happen here? In this world we’re in right now?” “We’re not sure. If this war ends so much earlier than normal not enough people will die. It can change things. Maybe you won’t land on the moon in 1969 here. Maybe you won’t land on Mars in 2028. We don’t know things like that. We’re trying to fix it. But there’s no way to know for sure.” I asked him about the moon. I asked about Mars. I asked about floating machines in space and telephones that fit in our pockets. But he had fallen asleep. I’m keen to pry deeper tomorrow. January 14th, 1918 There will be no prying deeper. Things became obnoxious last night. I question my own sanity at the moment. The doctor in the gas mask returned last night. He stood over my bed and stared at me as usual. I once again pretended to still be asleep. But I could see him through my ever so slightly opened eyelids. He turned and looked at the patient beside me. I heard them speak. “What further information can you gather from this hospital room?” the doctor asked him. “Are you of any further use to us?” I heard terror in the patient’s voice as he responded, “I… I’ll be fine. Just give me time. I’ll get through this. Aren’t I supposed to head to Brest next month for the peace negotiations? I can make it. I can do it.” “We already know how it ends you fool.” The doctor didn’t sound human at all. It was no voice a man could make. “It ends in November. Far too early. You’ve failed in your mission.” “No, listen, I can make this right…” “You’ll be lucky to survive 3 more days. But we have a plan. This patient beside you…. I have something for him. He’ll be shipped back to the United States tomorrow. I’m told he’ll speak to new recruits in the State of Kansas when he arrives. Things will already have started spreading by then. This incurable influenza should make up the difference (note: The Spanish Flu?). If you keep your mouth shut, we may have some use for you yet…” “You don’t need to do that. I can----“ But the doctor sighed in exasperation. I could hear it far better than I could see it. The doctor punched the patient in the face. Just once. But with far more strength than any man could induce. His face was completely obliterated. Blood, brains, and bone splattered across the hospital floor, ceiling, and walls. I tried not to move, but it was impossible. I opened my eyes. "What are you looking at?!", the doctor said as he pulled out a long needle and injected me with something. I have no idea what. But it can’t be good. I thought about sitting up. Running. Of trying to stop him. But I was frozen solid. He scared me, this doctor. More than anything I ever faced in those trenches. Maybe he really did just give me medicine. Maybe everything will be ok. I have no idea how real anything that doctor said was… but I do know he was right about my release. I’ve been told that they’re going to begin transferring me tomorrow. In just 2 months, I’ll be home. Maybe this war really does end early here, however possible. And I see nothing but good in that. This war exemplified the worst of what mankind can be. As horrible as anything anyone could ever do. Except for maybe a certain doctor, who I’m certain isn’t even a man at all. In March of 1918, the Spanish Flu is first documented in Fort Riley, Kansas. In just two years, this pandemic ends up killing far more people than the entire number of casualties of World War One. We’re not entirely sure what to think about this diary entry, but it’s similarity to the earlier Plague Doctor manuscript has intrigued us. In the future, we’ll be looking further into the documents in this hidden chest. And we’ll be sure to keep you updated here, with whichever may happen. For we did reach the moon in 1969, as outlined in the journal entry. And the more documents I read from this chest, the more I think mankind really will be waving back at us from Mars in the year 2028. And so much more. There’s so much more that we’re just starting to figure out. More than you’ll ever believe. Category:Fanfic Category:Creepypasta